Colored [short story]
writing·@elelobos·
0.000 HBDColored [short story]
|<center>COLORED </center>| |---| <center> [Fuente](https://steemit.com/steempress/@rahesi/fotocuentoconcursodecuentosfotocuentoganadores-semana8ypresentacin-semana9-pq2x6dysub)</center> <div class="text-justify"> The rain rages on the stinky taxi. Strange trees line the road on the other side of my reflection in the fogged glass. The faded features of my face mingle with the landscape. The beautiful silver leaves paint me. The thin black trunks give me shape and movement. It fill me with life. A changing work of art behind my motionless face. As if everything moved except me. As if the world were going through me without disturbing me. Without touching or smearing me. Without leaving a trace. But I am the one who moves, stained and damaged, towards a new destiny. What I see is just an illusion. A simple reflection in the glass of a window. A lie. The world did pass through me. It passed _over_ me. And left its deep marks. I can see them in the glass, in the dark and dull eyes that watch me without blinking. They seem to float on the road, out there, in the rain. Two dead spots in a living painting. I can’t stop watching. I slide a pale hand through the fogged glass. My face is no longer so blurred. If my features are lost I fear I will not be able to find myself again. How would I recognize me? I would wander alone and without direction, always behind a glass, waiting for another tree-lined path that gives color and shape to my life. The car brakes next to an ugly gray building. I get down and stand in the freezing rain. One of the trees rises right next to me, and I let myself fall under its little branches. I close my eyes, my body is soaking wet, and I know that sooner or later I’ll have to move forward, enter the huge building and start again. I'll have to pretend I live. But, meanwhile, I'm sitting under the small tree, broken and wet, and I let it color me a little longer. </div>  --- <center>© 2018, Elena Lobos</center>